


Technically, It's An Overcoat

by heatofthemoment



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, Leviathan Castiel, M/M, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-26 09:16:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heatofthemoment/pseuds/heatofthemoment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loosely based on the events of season 7, episode 2, "Hello, Cruel World". My own take on how Dean dealt with the "loss" of Castiel, and the significance of the trench coat. This is my first shot at fan fiction so if it's abysmal, please let me know. Feedback of any kind, positive or negative, is much obliged!<br/>~work in progress~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The further Castiel waded into the depths of the municipal reservoir, the further Dean felt his heart slump in his rib cage. He knew there were more important things to be worrying about - namely the looming threat of a Leviathan epidemic via the public water system. However, it was Cas that demanded all of his attention. The angel that disobeyed, countless times for him, risked expulsion from heaven, who was always there when Dean called, was now fully submerged in the water.

Before Sam, Dean, or Bobby could exchange reactions, a low grumbling sound emitted from the water before them.

"That don't sound pleasant," muttered Bobby, uneasiness woven through his voice.

He pushed the boys back, towards the fence, eyes startled, locked on the lake. His suspicions were confirmed by the formation of a whirlpool in the lake's centre, followed by an eruption of a black liquid which snaked through the water, absorbing its transparency. Within seconds, the entire lake was jet-black. And almost instantaneously, as if by a gravitational force, it was pulled right back, receding its way back to the lake's depths, restoring the water to its original state.

"Balls!" Bobby cursed, kicking the fence behind him, "that's the _last_ thing we need. This lake supplies every goddamn town in the nearby radius. We're gonna have ourselves a frenzy o' Leviathan on our hands..."

Dean zoned out again, allowing Bobby's exasperation to take a back seat in his mind. For a moment, he just didn't care less about the malignancy that had just been released, that would _inevitably_ become their mess to clean up. Wasn't that always the case? For one moment, just this _one_ moment, he wanted be selfish. To worry. In this line of work, one's fate was never certain. Life was a tight-rope and not everyone made it to the other side. Getting too attached to people only made it more difficult when they fell. Thoughts flooded Dean's head, like a ship that had sprung a leak. Was Cas dead? Or had the feathery little ass-hat managed to zap himself off somewhere safe? Surely an angelic being like Castiel, unburdened by the need to eat, sleep or use the restroom, who had survived several millennia, witnessed the rise and growth of civilisation, who was comprised of searing white energy that could burn the eyes of mortal beings wouldn't fall victim to death. It couldn't happen. Dean couldn't let himself imagine that it could, much less attempt to answer his own questions. It was futile; his pessimism would be of no help.

"Dean? You alright, boy?"

A light jostle from Sam, followed by a circumspect look, brought Dean back to reality once more.

"We gotta get working on this", said Sam as gently as he could.

He could tell Dean was hurting; call it brotherly instinct or just general intuition, but it was more than apparent. Dean was hurting, and Sam knew it. Despite all the talk of Cas' "betrayal", the angel was still a friend - a friend that had now joined the many others that Dean had lost. That Dean would feel responsible for losing. Sam was patient with Dean. He could empathise because, after all, he had just lost a friend, too. And he was saddened, but he knew that the magnitude, and manner, of the angel's exit was having a detrimental impact on his brother. Perhaps it had something to do with the "profound bond" Castiel had once spoken of. There certainly was a tangible energy between Dean and Cas - after all, the angel had pulled his brother from the embers of Hell. And his own handprint had been seared onto the freckled skin of Dean's shoulder, as if solidifying the alliance between the two. So it was no surprise that Dean was having trouble gathering his thoughts.

Dean wasn't crying, but he had certainly dropped the alpha bravado that he so often adopted, the one that had stuck with him since childhood. His mask. He turned from the lake and gave Sam a forced smile.

"No chick flick moments, huh?" he laughed, his voice quivering on the last syllable, "and certainly no crying over spilled Leviathan juice. We need to sort this motherfucker of a situation out before all hell breaks loose".

Sam nodded in agreement. That was so typical Dean - seizing control of a situation, in which he was almost powerless, to mask the pain. Dean's stance depicted that of a warrior, ready for battle. But if eyes really were the windows to the soul, Sam could see Dean's crumbling away.

Bobby gave Dean an encouraging slap on the back, and led the way back to the car. Dean trudged behind until a slippery _smack_ from the lake's shore made him turn on his heel. There, caught in the shallow waters of the lake, bobbing gently, was Cas' shabby old trench coat. Dean wasted no time in plucking it from the bank of the lake. He held it, with an outstretched arm, while the excess water drained off it. His eyebrows furrowed, while his eyes remained wide, like a child's - a child whose innocence had been punctured by the blow of grim news. The coat had confirmed his worst fears.

"So he's gone", he said, voice audibly trembling.

"I'm 'fraid so," Bobby replied, fully aware that Dean was really only talking to himself.

Dean folded the coat carefully, and hooked it on his arm. It was completely sodden, and its once-beige colour had taken on a more sooty hue, after its spell in the lake. Sam merely observed; he was lost for words, and couldn't seem to find any that could offer solace. Or that wouldn't inflict any more pain upon his brother. He saw Dean rest his hand upon the coat, tenderly and briefly. Then he inhaled sharply, as if to say "Pull yourself together, man" and straightened himself up. And with that, the trio of hunters made a silent, mutual decision to head back to the car. There was work to be done.


	2. Chapter 2

The Impala purred as it rolled to a halt in Bobby's driveway. Its passengers wasted no time in clambering out, as it certainly wasn't on their side.

"You boys better get yourselves caffeinated, because we have a date with the 'lore tonight," Bobby sighed, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

The odds were stacked against them all and exhaustion was closing in, but rarely did he let it show - for the boys's sake. Moral was important and in short supply.

He retreated to the house, followed by Sam who gave one quick, worried-little-brother glance in Dean's direction. The open trunk of the Impala covered his face, but Sam was certain that his brother was being pensive.

Dean fumbled around with the contents of his beloved car's trunk, tossing aside various arms, silver bullets and salt cellars. He gingerly pulled the zip of a duffle bag down, exposing the damp cloth inside. He heaved a great sigh before resealing the bag, tossing it over his shoulder, and slamming the trunk down behind him.

As he made his way up to the front porch, he suddenly became aware of how heavy he felt. Each step he took was arduous, as if his bones had turned into lead. He tried to shake the feeling but it was becoming stronger, spreading to his limbs and torso, threatening to invade his brain. By the time he reached the front door, his walk had been reduced to a stagger because of the encumbering weight that was dragging him down.

Upon reaching the top step, Dean found the door was left ajar, through which he could discern shadows of movement dancing on the muted green walls of the hallway. As Dean supported himself against the beam of the door, trying to regain his strength, his ears picked up snippets of conversation from inside: "...he's grieving...give him some time...", "...Cas?...", "...damn Leviathan...crack open the whiskey, boy".

Feeling slightly as though he had abused his "Griever's Pass", Dean took a sharp inhalation, ignoring the anvil of a burden that rested upon him, and pushed past the door and into the kitchen. Sam bounded towards him, instantaneously, pushing a tumbler of whiskey into his hand, as if he had been waiting there for him the entire time. If Dean didn't know any better, he'd assume that that was exactly what Sam had done. That worried-little-brother expression of his -a heavily-crinkled forehead and searching eyes- was in full swing. And even when Sam returned to corner of Bobby's living room, nose-deep in research, Dean could still feel his gaze, rife with concern, skimming over the top of the book in his hands.

Dean slumped his shoulder, allowing the duffle bag to slide off. It landed on a vacant chair with a gentle _plop_. He then made his way into the adjoining room, feeling obligated to join the others with their research.

Bobby's desk had become a towering jungle of thick, leather-bound books; the only thing indicating Bobby's actual presence was the fervent flicking of pages, and the occasional sipping of what was, indubitably, hunter's helper. Likewise, an askew stack of reading material had built up at the foot of Sam's armchair. The laptop balanced on his knees illuminated his face, which was knotted in concentration, while providing a source of light in the dim room.

"Alright," said Dean, swiping a book from the top of the stack on the desk, "let's get this party started".

Bobby merely grunted in reply at Dean's vain attempt at injecting some comic relief into the situation. Sam had barely reacted beyond a fleeting glance upwards. Both were engrossed in their research, lost in a realm of ceaseless information. This was their hunting ground.

As children, their father had always compared Sam to his older brother when it came to hunting. " _Why can't you be like Dean?"_  John's voice would bellow in Sam's ear, sometimes slurred. It was true that Sam didn't share Dean's agility, his apparent fearlessness. Dean was a physical hunter; he thrived on the adrenaline of the chase, was always on the move. What John failed to realise was that Sam's expertise was in the literary field - the backseat, but _essential_ , element to their profession.  
Sam took after Bobby, in this way. His brain was faster than his body. He had always preferred delving into the legends, and the 'lore, rather than shooting first and asking questions later. And where John would chastise the boys in his captious manner, Bobby was patient and turned "mistakes" into "learning curves". He showed Sam that he had as much a role in the hunting process as any hunter did, which eased him in.

Dean collapsed into the couch by the window - his spot. As he struggled to find a comfortable position, he opened the book he'd chosen. A few decades' worth of dust sprung from the pages, sending him into a brief coughing fit. Dean swatted it away, between splutters, before returning to the words in front of him. He looked down at the yellowed page -only one of thousands- with little enthusiasm. The print was microscopic, the spaces between each word infinitesimal. It looked like one incredibly long word that took up an entire page. This part of the work was headache-inducing for him, but his guilt had enough influence over him to make him feel obligated to see it through.

Dean channeled his concentration into the first few lines, but they began to merge and move about like amoebae under a microscope. Even when squinting, all he could make out was an unintelligible collection of symbols and letters. Dean pinched his temple and continued to stare at the page, trying to make some sense out of it, but to no avail. His brain refused to cooperate. Above his head, the clock ticked away, slow and torpid like someone dragging a corpse along the ground, this way and that. He wasn't getting anywhere, so he resolved that it was better to take a break, recharge and come back energised, than to continue on as he was. He got up from his chair, clearing his throat, weakly.

"I'm just gonna..." he began, pointing out to the stairs, unable to finish his sentence.

Sam threw him a quick glance and Bobby gave a subtle nod. They understood. Dean retreated to the kitchen, scooped up the duffle bag, and headed for the hallway. It was significantly cooler now. The chilled evening air squeezed through the gaps under the door, permeating the hall. It felt good, like a popsicle on a hot day - or so Dean imagined, if that had been a remnant of his childhood. Most childhood rites of passage he experienced secondhand, through TV shows.

Indulgently, he allowed himself a minute longer in the cool air before proceeding to take the stairs, two at a time. Not even pausing for a breath until he'd reached the top.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean fumbled around for the light switch with one hand, closing the door behind him with the other. The overhead bulb flickered for a moment, as it always did, as if unsure as to whether or not to bathe the room in its light. Or to do its job.

Dean's bedroom at Bobby's had barely changed since the days when John would dump him and Sam off, while he went off on more advanced hunts. Twin beds stood against the back wall - a considerable distance between them (bickering, snot-nosed kids needed their space). Above the headboard of the bed closest to the window was a collection of photos of Dean's music heroes, tacked to the wall. The members of AC/DC, Led Zeppelin, and Pink Floyd, among others, looked back at Dean, yellowed with age and curling slightly at the corners.

Dean sat himself down on the edge of his bed, carefully placing the duffle bag beside him, as if there was a sleeping creature inside it that he didn't want to disturb. He unzipped it, removing its sole content. By now, the coat had dried completely. The black residue from the lake had stained it slightly - nothing some detergent couldn't fix. Dean lifted the coat up to his nose, inhaling lightly. Cas didn't have a specific scent. He didn't smell like home-baking, or pressed cotton, or whiskey - he just smelt like Cas. And when the material was close enough to Dean's nostrils, that undefinable, yet distinct, smell greeted him like a warm embrace.

"Damn it, Cas," Dean exhaled, his voice gravelly, "why didn't you listen to me?"

Alone in his room, cracks began to form in the dam that held everything back. With no one around to tell him to "man up" because real men don't cry, or to keep it together in front of, he allowed the amalgamation of all his repressed emotions to pummel into him like a raging bull. And it almost winded him. It felt like he was lying on a train track, allowing himself to be run over by one train after another: the 11:45 Guilt Trip, followed by the 12:30 Stress Express.

It felt good, even if it wasn't real. The idea of it cleansed his mind, made him feel pure again. It always had. Sylvia Plath had her baths, and Dean had pain. Physicality was a relief. Knocking the living daylights out of a vamp causing trouble in a small town felt good. It's impossible to feel bad about yourself when you're busy trying not to get killed.

As he detoxed himself mentally, he allowed his body to sink back into the mattress. It was lumpy and the springs were rusty with age, screeching the more Dean lowered his weight onto them. From the window, Dean could see the evening had, once again, made its daily transition into night, the sky inky-black like the lake earlier. Like the gunk oozing from Cas' body before he infiltrated the water with it.

Dean shed his outer layers -the worn camo jacket and denim shirt beneath it- letting them slip off his body and into a heap on the floor. He pushed the sleeve of his t-shirt further up his arm, revealing his shoulder and the souvenir Cas had given him a few years earlier. A reminder - not only of the friend he had lost, but of his time in Hell. A reminder of how he had lapsed, how he had succumbed to Allistair; trading what little morality he had left to slice and hack away at lost souls. That's what Allistair called them. That's what Dean had thought of himself too: a lost soul that he could never be redeemed.

And then he'd woken up in that match-box of a coffin on September 18th 2008, miraculously stitched together again. No pieces missing, no adornments or scars from the blades that lacerated his skin again and again and again, every day for three decades.

Except for the handprint.

Even Dean couldn't shrug off its symbolism as a mere coincidence. Branded by an angel - and not just any angel, at that. An angel that eventually became his friend, his brother-in-arms. He stroked it gently, the scar tissue white under the pressure of his thumb, fading back to salmon-pink when it passed over. It didn't hurt. It never had. It didn't have any complimentary powers either; if Dean took a blow to the shoulder, Cas wouldn't feel it on his. It wasn't like that.  

But it had meaning. It stood for a redemption that Dean could never -and would never- feel he deserved. A second shot.

He still struggled to understand just why Castiel had been commissioned to drag him back out of the pit, cutting his penance short. Why him of all people? Dean made no bones about how distanced he felt from religion, but always kept his cynicism to a minimum on behalf of his little brother who, despite it all, still clung to his faith (even if that faith had greatly diminished since his own time in Hell). Not to mention all the other things: the drinking, the gambling, lying and theft. Sex, violence and everything in between. 

 _Why should I get out of jail free?_  he would think to himself. More often than not, the voices of the prophets and angels he had met over the years, spouting bullshit about him being "The Righteous Man" would answer this question for him. So he'd learned to curb his curiosity. Spare himself the crap.

But him? Dean Winchester?  _Righteous_? His father would have had a hernia laughing - even if God himself had said it to him. But it was one of those things that he knew he just had to accept -as ridiculous as it was- for the sake of what little sanity he had managed to preserve. He didn't understand now and might possibly never understand, but as long as he didn't have to talk about it, and cringe at the notion of being turned into some kind of legend, then he'd keep his mouth shut and swallow the bitter pill.

But the guilt - that was harder to lay to rest. It lingered on, like a guest at a party who refuses to leave, long after everyone else has gone home. Dean could sate himself with as much alcohol as his liver could take, but it never erased the guilt. Just numbed it for a while - gave him a little break.

It would all come flooding back eventually. It was like being trapped in a boat that had sprung a leak, with only a bucket for assistance. Scooping it up and throwing it overboard was futile, but what else could you do?

Sleeping was the only solace for Dean - a solid four hours bliss, where he didn't have to give a damn about anything. It was just a pity he had to be unconscious to enjoy it. It would be harder tonight, with Cas playing on his mind.

But exhaustion tugged at his eyelids, making them flicker. They felt heavy, like his body had earlier in the evening. And the clock on the wall ticked languidly, echoing off its own wooden frame, making every tick -every second- sound like an eternity. So Dean gave up the fight, as they drew down over his eyes like blinds; the room around him closing in, getting darker, darker, darker.

 

 


End file.
